


The Killer And The Killed

by SecondFromTheRight



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Mentioned a lot - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23316268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecondFromTheRight/pseuds/SecondFromTheRight
Summary: Her scoff is high-pitched this time. “Oh, that better be a fucking joke,” she laughs humourlessly. Iris is on edge all the time now. It’s become her seconds, her minutes, her every fucking day, worse and worse as she's shut down - shut herself down. And Savitar drags it out of her. “For months, you tormented us!”He waits, quiet, and Iris becomes aware of her chest that heaves with breath, with anger, with rage, with –“And you killed me.” He says, holding her stare. There’s nothing else but intensity. There’s no anger, no rage.Set post 3x23.
Relationships: Barry Allen & Iris West, Barry Allen/Iris West, Savitar & Iris West, Savitar/Iris West
Comments: 17
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another multi-chapter fic is the last thing I should be doing right now, but hey, I finished the last one!
> 
> I've been wanting to write about this dynamic for a while and yesterday I just kind of, did. So it's a mostly worked-work-in-progress. I am still working on other stuff and this served as a nice distraction, in a way.
> 
> Fair warning, it's a little heavy, very unhealthy, and a little fucked up. Not how I write most of my Westallen (except my last one)

Iris isn’t sure how long she stands there, alone, in the loft. Barry just walked into the speedforce. He just left her.

She’s never going to be Iris West-Allen.

They saved her future, but she lost the chance of it ever being a happy one tonight.

“Funny,” Barry’s voice has her whipping around to the figure standing at the door. “Even _I_ didn’t see this coming.” He smirks.

Not Barry. Savitar.

_How_?

“Get out.” She rages. It’s the first emotion she’s fully aware feeling since the utter empty loss that took over as the speedforce closed and left her on the other side – the outside.

“No,” he says simply. “I get the impression his speedforce stay will be _much_ more accommodating than mine.” he taunts with bitterness even as he takes a look around the loft blithely.

Standing by the window, she glares at him. He doesn’t move by his place at the loft’s front door, but he’s in her way to what she needs. Her gun. “What do you want?” she asks, trying to control her breathing as she prepares to step forward. “Haven’t you won?” she hits back, leaning into that anger. Slowly, she moves as casually as she can, as though she doesn’t have a target other than him.

“Don’t.” he bites out without looking at her. It stops her immediately. Her breath is gone, cut from her, but she feels her heart picking up in fear as she remembers what he’s capable of, what he wants to do. The blood in her ears is loud as her body starts to get ready to run to what she needs. Unable to resist, her eyes drift to the stairs.

Before she can find her missing breath, he’s in front of her, making her gasp. Towering down at her, he stares at her. “ _Don’t_.” he repeats.

His face, Barry. Barry is gone. She retakes her breath in a heavy gulp. Barry. “Please leave.” She gets out before completely breaking down, the solidity of rage fizzling away and leaving her hopeless.

His look doesn’t lose its intensity, but his focus does flicker further down her face before returning to her eyes.

And then he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Other than drabbles, this has got to be the shortest chapter I've posted. It feels weird.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna be churning this out as I get it done. No timeline seems to be a better motivator for me and I'd really like to finish it.

She calls in sick for three days. She ignores all texts, calls, and visits at the door, telling everyone who gets annoying and desperate enough to make her answer that she just needs some space.

She doesn’t see Savitar again and through her lack of sleep, her lack of food, she starts to think she dreamed it.

She doesn’t tell the team about it. It’s her first act in spiralling.

On the fourth day, she marches into work, determined. She searches for the toughest, longest assignment she can find, convincing others and her editor to see what else is being worked on. It’s something she needs and she’s been so distracted with her own impending doom recently that she doesn’t have something already. The guns trade story was only one she’d had because she’d put everything into it, her life literally depending on it. It could have been her last piece. Her last words.

So now she’s eager for something to sink her teeth into. Something that matters. Something that can help her remember who she is, who she wanted to be last week, last month, last year. Because through the silence of the loft, the coldness of her sheets – without Barry, she’s starting to forget.

No one wants to hand over their work, even their leads. Iris understands, she wouldn’t either, but it’s not acceptable to her.

The whole sorry thing makes her realise her only friend here was Linda. She misses Mason. Another part what’s made her, another building block she needed to _be_. Upon the thought, she feels an urge to reach out to the other writer. Someone she could talk to, someone smart and hot and capable. Someone who _knew_ , knew about Barry. The phone is in her hand before she’s decided it’s what she’s going to do, but as she finds Linda’s contact, she stops.

What the fuck would she tell her?

Barry’s gone, it’s over, she’s drowning?

It would be more than she’d have to give to those still here, her dad, Wally. More explaining, more burden.

A fake, bright and half-flirty smile as though she’s the least threatening person in the world is how she persuades a co-worker to let her in on their scoop.

She uses the fact that she’s disconnected from everyone she works with to lie and hide away even more. Apparently she’s already good at it. She wasn't really aware of it because she always felt a part of something. Team Flash, that all of Central City knew about, had feelings about, were attached to it. Something that linked everyone, to varying degrees. But the only thing she's a part of now is the office. So when everyone comes at her with a beaming smile, genuine or not, and asks her about Barry, about the wedding, using the excuse her dad told Singh comes easy in a way. And Iris is sure that none of them read the misery from her. She’s still a recently-engaged woman in love planning her wedding, planning the rest of her life. The woman who has everything.

Truth is, she is planning the rest of her life. Planning how she’s going to pretend she has one.

Truth is, she has nothing.

So she needs the story.

Maybe it will be enough to be a name. A byline. The words of a story can hide who she really is without hiding everything like her day-to-day interactions do. Even if for now, it’s a shared byline. Even if the name itself will always be incomplete. How is it possible, she wonders, to have been this person her whole life, proudly, and now Iris West just isn’t enough. Because Barry was always by her side, that’s why. Because it was _I'm Iris West, and this is my best friend Barry Allen._ Because it was _I'm Iris West and this is my boyfriend Barry Allen._ Because it was _I'm Iris West and this is my fiance Barry Allen._ Because Iris West was always on her way to being Iris West-Allen.

Now she's not. So now she doesn't know where she's going.

When ‘ _another rescue without The Flash?_ ’ becomes a common question in the office, quickly moving to ‘ _how long has it been since The Flash was spotted?’_ and eventually concludes with opinions of ‘ _The Flash would have handled that shit so much better_ ’ and ‘ _I miss The Flash_ ’, it’s somehow harder to hide it. She can’t give as practiced an answer to brush things off. It’s worse when they ask her about The Flash, and if she knows where he is, that she should know where he is and isn’t she worried? The same people ask her about Barry, and The Flash, and never make the connection. They miss it, just like her misery, her grief. She should be used to it, she’s been there herself, missing the obvious, but it makes her want to scream in their faces more than anything.

All of Central City misses The Flash, and they expect her too.

Her editor asks her to write about it, more than once.

It's not as easy because she's not used to lying about The Flash exactly, just the man who he was. It isn't an adjustment she expected.

Linda never gets in touch about the lack of The Flash, reminding her fully that her friend left Central City for a reason. It’s enough to fully stop her from continuing to pause over her contact like she has been.

She researches into the story separately from her new partner, pretending she isn’t.

Iris’ determination drives it, fuelling all that’s left of her. It reminds her of the summer when she had one specific goal to reach and a date to have it done by, and that pushes her on even more, giving all day, every day and racing past caution over and over.

Barry. Like Barry, when he shouldn’t have.

But Barry isn’t there to make her stop and think, anymore, to pull her back and take it on with her instead.

So she does it to the point where she ends up in a situation her dad would rail at her for, proof that his overprotectiveness to the point of making decisions for her, was the right call.

It’s a terrible last thought to have, she thinks, as she flattens herself against a wall, holding her breath and waiting for the multiple pairs of heavy boots to find her.

If Barry ever finds his way home, she won’t be there to find. These men will find her first, and there’s no way they won’t kill her when they do. And no one knows she’s here. Everything she felt all summer as her destined-death neared, she feels within 30 seconds.

How long did 30 seconds feel for Barry?

That’s a better last thought to have.

Barry.

In the moment she listens to the talking voices growing louder, nearer, Iris isn’t sure if she’s heartbroken, or glad. At least it will be done, she thinks. She didn’t just give up. Maybe she was simply always supposed to die at this point in her life.

Iris West-Allen. Was there really only one timeline that in which that would be her life?

It will destroy her dad though. Losing both her and Barry in just over a week? _Wally_.

But it never happens. There’s wind and echo and it’s familiar, but it’s not. She can’t move her body. Until she can, and she’s outside – _they’re_ outside.

“What are you doing?” Savitar demands of her.

His breathing sounds even, but he towers over her with an intensity that is hard to be under. She’s never been more aware of Barry’s height; he never used it this way. It’s worse still because Savitar’s crowded her into a wall of some building and she can’t even see anything past him. She has no idea where he’s brought her and has to purposely take in the air, and the darkness of the night sky - the only thing other than him that she can see, just to convince herself she is outside.

“My job!” she hits back, adrenaline sharpening everything after what just happened. She tries not to flinch with how close he is, that her situation has changed to being flattened against another wall with someone much more dangerous. _Her job,_ she hones in on, trying to find something to grasp to, something she can yell about. Her job, one thing she has left, the one thing she can still be and how dare he get involved in it, even if she was almost about to lose it – and her life – by her own choices anyway.

His eyes narrow; he doesn’t move away, doesn’t let her have any space. “You’re going to get yourself killed.” He says through his teeth though his tone is even, low.

It unnerves her, and pisses her off, because she’s standing there completely overwhelmed and he’s composed in contrast and because _he’s right._ “Then I’m sure you’d be happy,” she spits at him and finally there’s a reaction. He pulls back but doesn’t step away. It makes her realise how exactly how much he was leaning over her. There’s a flicker in his expression as his focus drifts from hers for the first time. Iris scoffs at it, further holding onto her anger. “What, am I supposed to ignore your want to kill me? That you tried to – twice!” she yells at him.

His eyes pin hers and he’s blanketing her again. She finds it hard to decipher his movement, he just does somehow. Seamless and terrifying. God-like. “I wasn’t going to let you _suffer_.” He says, eyes narrowing again and full of implication that he knows exactly what those men would have done to her, that he knows what she’s been doing, her movements. 

Her scoff is high-pitched this time. “Oh, that better be a fucking joke,” she laughs humourlessly. Iris is on edge all the time now, it’s became her seconds, her minutes, her every fucking day, worse and worse as she’s shut down – shut herself down. And he’s dragging it out of her and it’s _something_. Something she can feel, and react to. Something real. “For months, you tormented us!”

He waits, quiet, and Iris becomes aware of her chest that heaves with breath, with anger, with rage, with –

“And you killed me.” He says, holding her stare. There’s nothing else but intensity. There’s no anger, no rage.

With a blink, she feels the ground drop from under her and then they’re at the loft. “Stop taking risks,” he orders as he clutches her arm; it almost hurts, and Iris is almost grateful for it. “You’ve never been stupid.”

And then he’s gone and Iris drops down into the chair behind her.

She’s shaking and weak and feels like she might throw up.

She locks the door – and relocks it. Even though she knows it doesn’t make a difference for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

In weeks, she realises how much she has distanced from the team. By choice. She’s dived into her work, hid herself in it as though she can create a legacy for herself that is good enough to forget she’ll never be complete ever again.

Cisco texts her. He even drops by her work more than once, stealing an empty chair and loudly rolling it over to her desk for everyone to see. The entrance gesture often seems to be all as he’s got as afterwards, he looks as lost as she feels, and it’s too much. He tells her, gently but proudly that he’s repairing STAR Labs. An unspoken invitation she doesn’t vocally acknowledge. It’s obvious the work he’s doing is serving as the same as her work is for her – purpose, covering the cracks, and she is grateful he has something. Though the fringes of her mind cry out that it won’t last. He’ll get to the point where he can’t fix things anymore, and then what? She silences it with talk about a couple of recent problems Vibe and Kid Flash saved the day on, as if to remind both of them that it’s not completely over.

Julian emails her from England. Iris wishes she could have run away in a similar way, but it wasn’t the direction of running Barry asked of her. Besides, she has no home to run to anymore.

Caitlin doesn’t text and Iris only knows she’s even still in Central City because Cisco calls and asks her to come with him to some bar she’s apparently working in.

Iris declines. She’s too busy. Not with work, with trying to forget them. Killer Frost and her associations isn’t something she wants to know about, and she feels the stirrings of self-disgust when she wonders if Savitar is visiting the meta too.

Wally and her dad watch her. She pretends they don’t.

Wally also misses HR and Iris thinks how pointless it all is. HR had been her hero, but for what? She’s the reason he’s dead – she and the speedster no one else knows is still around, still alive.

Nothing comes through in work about Savitar. Even anything that could be him. She has no idea where he is, or what the fuck he’s doing, and she doesn’t seek to find out.

Still, she doesn’t tell the team that he’s back. Never really left?

She finds out about a meta human attack Cisco was hurt in through work. Even her dad who was involved doesn’t tell her – he’s given up on her too, she thinks. It’s obvious in how much colder, quieter, their weekly dinners become. That and because they become fortnightly. She’s too busy, too many leads, too many drafts, too many new sources she’s trying to build, trying to forget it.

Except she can’t forget. She can hide it – even from herself; bury it in the ever-growing hole inside her. And the talk about the lack of The Flash continues. Then people die; people, her co-workers are sure, The Flash would have saved.

She can’t even pretend to forget anymore. Because Barry would be so disappointed in her.

What good is any legacy she can leave if he would have been disappointed in her?

What good is any legacy she can leave if The Flash’s legacy is wasted?

She takes coffee to STAR Labs. And twizzlers.

It’s all she’s got.

By Barry’s birthday – an upcoming date she feels every second of the countdown to – she’s trying her best to balance the two by spending as much time as she can at STAR Labs, but it’s not happening. It’s not enough; _she’s_ not enough.

It comes to a head when her risks continue, now even more tired, even more disconnected and Savitar has to rescue her, again.

She shoves him this time; he barely moves. Just a retreat of his shoulders that he easily, deliberately straightens from.

Barry would have moved, she thinks.

Barry would have taken a step back, given her the moment she displayed the need for before coming back into her space and _fixing_ her.

But Savitar doesn’t do either. Just stands, solid, and stares at her.

Barry’s eyes, but not.

She cries then, miserable that there’s cold eyes just staring at her that reflects only an absence of the person she loves, even though some part of him is right in front of her. It’s so much worse, and so _unfair_.

Upping the ante in fury – grief – she tries again. Fisting his shirt, she pushes him and he still doesn’t move, glowering down at her even as she thuds pathetic punches at his chest.

He doesn’t do _anything_.

So she kisses him. Launches herself at him, searing her mouth over his in a mess of tears and finally he moves. Finally he does something. And it’s _everything_. The energy it gives her, the purpose, is more than any story she’s done in months. Even the anger she has for him is more powerful than anything she feels during the day anymore, she realises. It has been since the night Barry left. Was taken away. _Left_.

She’s starting to familiarise herself with the feel of his scars against her skin and the way his mouth bruises in a way she’s not used to when she finds herself back at the loft, alone, and only her windswept hair, her heavy pant, dried-tears and the mixed saliva on her lips as proof of any of it. Just her, standing alone.

Iris is reminded of The Flash – Barry – leaving her at Jitters, fluffed hair and racing heart, over and over again.

She unlocks the door, even though she knows he doesn’t need it.

For him, for risk. To feel _something_.

She starts to hate herself.

The frame of her and Barry is turned down in shame, in guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this is depressing. I'm going to work on another short, ridiculous thing I started ages ago because I need the break (break from the break. S2 hospital-ridden, drugged-up Iris confessing her feelings, anyone?)
> 
> Thanks for reading this. I will get another chapter out for this tonight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the misery continues! I'm sorry. I will say next chapter will...progress things.

Questions about Barry become too much when she has to keep explaining why he’s not back yet, has to keep extending when he’s due back. There’s always follow ups to it. Emotional ones. _She must miss him so much_ , _how is it planning the wedding by herself_ , _god, what a tough thing to handle_ and _wow their relationship must be so strong_.

Iris isn't sure which is worse, the sympathy or the admiration. The urge to scream at them becomes more and for all her hiding, it passes more than she can manage. Interviewees start hitting on her and when “ _My fiance wouldn’t appreciate that_ ” comes with a thought of what Savitar would do, Iris knows she’s in trouble.

She keeps her ring on, though finds herself sliding it up and down her finger and staring at it when she’s home, as if testing taking it off.

There will never be another band accompanying it, there will never be a partner for it, she realises.

“Barry.” She makes herself say aloud, over and over, when she realises the only words spoken in the loft in weeks have been to or by Savitar.

The self-hate grows.

She quits her job and sits behind the comms at STAR Labs instead.

She directs, she leads, missing Barry.

The sound of his voice, his hope, she realises she misses more than ever. Iris doesn’t have it in her to give an uplifting speech anymore. And Cisco can reach people, but the unconditional hand Barry always offered everyone isn’t there anymore. And she can’t replace it – no one can, even though she tries to. Logic, formation, structure, training wins out. ‘ _Good job guys_!’ becomes routine, another practiced line that people don’t notice the lie behind.

She loses more of herself, by clinging to the only part of her that really matters now, to the one part she doesn’t want to lose.

She doesn’t run, but she doesn’t stop either. Trying to make up for who she’s become in Barry’s absence, trying to keep his goodness alive somehow.

She pushes the others more and more, more drills, careful assessment and judgement on execution. Weak spots, she looks for more than anything. The least she can do is keep them save. Barry would want that.

Sometimes Iris uses Savitar as the possible enemy in combat, assessing how they would have fared against him, what he would have done.

Caitlin still isn’t back but Iris knows Cisco’s in contact with her and she lets him handle it, partly fearing the day the used-to-be-doctor walks into the cortex with information about Savitar, information Iris doesn’t have. In the meantime, she somehow becomes the medic too, as much as she can.

Long hours at work continue, even if the view is different now.

Her dad and Wally start smiling brighter at her, apparently believing she’s coming back to life.

It’s easy to let them believe it.

It’s easy to start lying to everyone except the man who wears her love’s face.

One night it gets too much. Iris would like to say that it’s at least a special night. An anniversary, something that means something, but she doesn’t actually know what triggers her total breakdown. She only knows she has it.

That, and somehow Savitar is there much the way he always shows up, and she throws a cushion at him as she cries because it’s the closest thing to her and the energy, the thought, the clarity, the basic ability to reach for something else is gone. Again, he barely reacts, simply watching as the cushion bounces off his chest and falls to the floor with a thump. He doesn’t even use his speed to catch it - doesn't catch it at all as if what’s the point? Her action so useless, so meaningless.

Like the cushion, she ends up on the floor with a thump.

Savitar easily lifts her, continuing to forgo his speed, unlike he usually would. Iris tells herself that small difference, that is more like her Barry – she tells herself it’s why she loops her arm around his neck and buries her face into his chest, his neck, his scarred cheek, as he carries her slowly step by step upstairs. She's never seen him move so slow.

He puts her in bed. Their bed. Not _their_ bed.

He's still again, at the end of the bed this time as he watches her curl up and cry against sheets that will never smell like Barry again.

Then Savitar is gone and she hates herself a little bit more for how his absence brings more tears, more pain she’s sure she can feel throughout her body, her stomach aching suddenly.

She rebels, desperately chasing some kind of control. The blankets are pushed back, the carpet and then the wood of the stairs taking her quick stomps as she isolates herself to the couch instead.

Their bed. Her's and Barry's bed. That she just let Savitar take her to.

When Iris wakes up on the couch, there’s a blanket on her. Automatically, she looks to the frame on the table that shows a smiling her and Barry, seeking comfort. The guilt worsens when she remembers it’s facedown.

She remains on the couch from then.

The frame remains facedown.

Iris continues to look for it every night before she can think not to, wondering when she’ll remember it’s not available anymore and she’ll lose the habit. Wondering how much longer after that it will be that she loses the habit of looking for Barry, even though she knows he’s not available either.

She starts to truly believe he never will be again and Iris doesn't know what to do with that because she thought she already did believe it, she thought she already had reached that point. She doesn't know how she's supposed to be strong like Barry would want her to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for reading. Especially when it's depressing as fuck.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, so, a couple of things.
> 
> One. I've felt really weird about updating this because I didn't want to write a Black female character so miserable and pained in this moment in time. It feels wrong. And, I don't know, like a betrayal. But, it also feels like a betrayal to leave her miserable and not resolve and finish the story as much as I can. So...that's where I'm at. I'm not sure which is right or wrong, but here's an update.
> 
> Two. And THIS IS IMPORTANT.  
> This chapter has a lot of sex. And given the characters and their dynamic in this, it is probably as close to the line as I will personally ever write. I don't think it crosses the line, but serious warning and reminder that this is not an equal relationship. It is not built around trust. So if there is any doubt about how this chapter may make you feel, just close the tab. It is not worth your discomfort.

The couch becomes her bed in more ways.

For sleeping – for failing to sleep and eventually passing out exhausted.

And then for sex.

It starts by herself. One night after more of the numbing that runs her life now, she’s sitting on the couch tired and irritated. There’s a throbbing at the back of her head that she can’t get rid of that she finally decides to try to distract herself from.

She rarely gets herself off since Barry - since Barry. But sometimes.

Unbuttoned jeans, a hand sliding under her panties, she closes her eyes, tries to relax her shoulders as she leans back into the couch cushions. She lets herself think about Barry more than she typically consciously tries to now. But he’s always at the fringes of her mind, always so much of the reason of why she makes the decisions she does. Then full, vivid thoughts of Barry flood her mind as soon as she lets just a little in.

It quickly has the effect she craved. Her nipples hardening as she thinks of his hands, his strength. Arousal pooling between her legs as she remembers his _attention_. Dedicated and whole, always so motivated by the need to fix, to soothe, to make a difference. The way he’d give everything of himself. The same approach he’d always had with her, whether being there to listen as her best friend, or to bring her to unlimited heights as her lover. The same approach he put to everything, but it was so intensified with her. She had him like nothing else ever did. He gave her _everything_.

She was the centre of his world and he’d make her come with the same drive he had to save the city, as if it were as important.

She misses that attention so much. She needs it, wet and wanting in their loft, on their couch. The loft, the couch, that he got for her, for them, for _home_.

A gust of wind makes her jump, causing her to unintentionally slide over her clit, deepening her want and piercing into the fantasy she’s desperately emerging herself in.

She waits to open her eyes, feeling goosebumps on her skin at the obvious visitor.

Except it isn’t obvious, she tells herself, anyway.

Maybe it’s Barry, maybe he could have come back to her and – she screws her eyes tighter, extending her pretending into the loft – past her days and into her nights now. Their loft.

 _Barry_.

Falling further, she keeps her eyes tightly closed, concentrating on the fantasy playing out in her mind. Barry being back, having missed her as much as she missed him and needing to show it. Barry coming home, home to her.

The dream that used to be her life.

 _Barry_.

She clenches her free hand into the side of her leg as she works herself further, fingertips rubbing impatiently before allowing herself to lower her attention. Dipping two fingers into her entrance, she plays with her arousal, sliding the slickness back up to coat her clit with a brief touch that has her back arching off the couch. It feels easy, the dim maybe pushing her on, exciting her more as she clings to the hope of it, to the if – to the familiarity of that gust of wind. She follows by lowering her hand again, using her index and ring finger to open herself up before pushing her middle finger inside.

A moan escapes her as she thinks of displaying herself for Barry, pretending the moment is different. Pretending she’s without clothes and the love of her life is in front of her. That it’s a regular day, one of the many of their lives together.

What used to be her life. What she needs to be her life again.

She hasn’t quietened from her moan before hands suddenly tug at her pants, causing some tension through her body at the contact. But she doesn’t open her eyes, and she doesn’t stop him.

Him.  
_Barry_.  
Him.

There’s no subtlety like Barry usually would give. There’s no hands sliding up her legs first. No soft or teasing touches at her hips or stomach.

But the move makes Iris lift her hips anyway, and both her pants and panties are quickly removed and she’s someways to making her pretending real, without clothes from the waist down in the loft that they made a home together.

The chill she feels against the heat of her makes her moan, makes her bring her hand to her breasts where she kneads her left breast then roughly brushes over her nipple, clumsily pinching the peak between the fleshly corner of her thumb and index finger as much as she can over her blouse and bra.

She feels desperate, chasing the moment, needing it to continue.

And just like Barry, he tends to her needs.

Again, there’s no easing into the moment, no loving attention. No kisses on her thighs, no fingers smoothing over her skin; his mouth is on her immediately and she juts up at the touch, practically keening before letting herself relax back into the couch again. Because it’s not gentle touches like usual, but it is a touch, one she knows. It is a presence she knows. And it’s more than enough to make her give herself over to it.

The back of her mind holds the thought of how often he must be watching her, but it dims away when she feels his shoulders against her thighs as he fully takes his place on his knees between her legs.

It’s Barry, but it’s not. There’s familiarity and there’s difference and Iris can’t decide which alights her more. She knows which she feels more guilt for.

But it blends together in a way that comforts and excites. That cools and heats her.

He’s messier – she can feel her own wetness on her thighs. And his fingers bit more – digging into the flesh of her ass as he grips her close, instantly fucking his tongue into her.

“Barry.” She breathes in, caught up in the suddenness of it all, of the rightness of it all.

The fingers bite more and Iris reacts in a way she’s not used to. A fire shoots through her, settling low. Arousal floods even more, and she feels a heady rush.

Control. She feels control. And oddly mixed with safety. Things that she’s almost forgetting the feel of.

Losing her mind in that feeling, she opens her eyes. The excitement strengthens as she recognises the man between her legs. She puts her hand on his head, fisting familiar hair and roughly pulling him against her. “Barry.” She repeats with purpose, suddenly in game-playing she never thought she’d be in, never thought she’d want.

Savitar’s tongue stills inside her at her words, denying her. She lifts her hips into him and tugs him closer, encouraging what she wants.

In a second, Iris finds her legs completely pinned back to her chest, Savitar gripping her tightly at the shins and spreading her wide. Her eyes shoot open wide, trying to find her breath, suddenly harder in the position, as she meets his eyes. He’s staring at her dangerously, eyes on hers even as his mouth hovers over her; she can feel his breath cool against the heat of her and even with the shift of the moment, she feels her muscles tighten in reaction, tipping her pelvis in a want to be closer because it’s all the amount she can move.

Iris waits, keeping her hands where now they’re trapped under her own legs, palms flat against the couch.

Slowly – so fucking slowly – he lowers his face to her again, keeping eye contact the whole time as he fully dips back down. Her thigh muscles continue to react in anticipation, tensing down to her lower stomach even though she still can’t really move because of his hands still holding her, holding her open.

Eyes drift closed again, her breathing shortening in heavy breaths as she lets herself feel. A mouth she knows, a tongue she knows – knows this way, even if he’s a bit rougher, a bit more intense. It’s still familiar, still right, still something hers, she thinks.

She keeps rolling her hips as much as she can but he’s holding her so tightly it doesn’t do anything. His fingers stay wrapped around her legs; she’s half-aware of his press of his thumbs, digging into her inner legs. Similarly, of her own hands gripping the couch under her. But she’s too overwhelmed by the orgasm she can feel building as he licks into her, too intent on chasing it.

She needs it, she’s allowed it. He’s _hers_.

 _Barry_.

The vibrations she knows so well, the vibrations so uniquely Barry – Barry, The Flash, Savitar – she expects to follow, to send her over the edge, don’t come though, causing frustration and confusion that seeks to upend the blissful escape she’s having.

“Please.” She pants, because she needs it.

She know he knows what she means, what she wants, what she needs. They’ve been in this position so many times. Them, but not them – but it is. _Barry_.

Clamping her eyes closed again, cutting off the conflict of emotion that threatens to take the release from her, she focuses solely on what she can physically feel.

Hands and fingers she knows, even if they’re tighter against her than they’ve been before. Even if they’re holding her back instead of carrying her forward. Still his.

Mouth and tongue she’s kissed so many times, that have touched her everywhere, including where they’re focused now, so many times.

“Please, please, please.” she repeats in something of a pathetic whisper, because she needs to come. Because she can’t go back – this is how she gets off, it’s how Barry got her off. It’s how Iris West-Allen was going to spend her life getting off. Because nothing else will be right for her.

She doesn’t think he will give her what she wants. Her body feels hot, getting hotter and hotter in frustration and just too much as she refuses to let go of the edge she’s being driven to.

But then it comes, sudden and sharper than usual as he presses his tongue down over her clit, deep and quick vibrations that thrill through her whole body, all centring on her clit.

And she comes – she throws her head back as much as she can in the space as she comes loudly. Loud in the moan she gives, loud in the mess she is, loud in the moment where the room is the only thing that exists.

Barely, she feels her legs pushed wider, the colour exploding into black behind her eyelids taking over her body, her mind.

After, he stares at her, still from between her legs as she tries to get her breath back. He still has her legs pinned against her chest though, making it difficult to regain her breathing.

Then he moves, rocking back onto his ankles and she stays. Both his hands slide down her legs, slick with sweat, she realises. Then his right hand falls away completely as his left stays. The grip is low on her calve, and loose. Without his hold, her legs naturally lower until her feet meet the edge of the couch. Her body feels like jelly, her legs twitching with want to sway over and collapse into each other, but the hand that remains on her – and his stare still entirely set on her eyes – holds her in place almost as much as before. But then even when he slowly, deliberately, traces his focus down to her – still open, still wet – soaked – and just _looks_ at her, it isn’t enough to make her close her legs. She doesn't want to.

He stares at her, _into_ her, and Iris is caught even more when he calmly reaches down to unbutton his jeans with his free hand.

Her breathing tightens all over again, high in her chest.

Then somehow it’s worse when his focus flicks up without even a blink, locking onto her eyes again. She can feel her arousal, her come, pooling, but he’s focused on her face. Even as he pushes his hand under his waistband, even when she sees the way he slightly tilts his head back, the way his jawline twitches as he takes a hold of himself, his eyes stay on hers.

He stares at her, and she watches.

He strokes himself inside his pants. Slow and casual at first. _His own timeline_. Always in his own timeline. Like he owns it, like only he knows it.

Now she’s the one still and silent as he touches himself.

He never takes his eyes from hers, not even to shift his focus back down to her, still spread open in front of him and it’s simultaneously the most Barry thing, and the most Savitar thing and somehow her mind accepts it. Wants it.

That feeling of control again, that power.

He’s quiet, unlike Barry. There’s no praising, no encouraging, no vocal adoration.

His only moans are stilted, and guttural, and patient.

Now it’s the silence of the loft, such a contrast to the mess he made of her, that is just as loud somehow. _It’s deafening_.

Stupidly, she starts to wonder about Savitar’s sex life.

Stupidly, she tries to figure out what he may be thinking right now. Thinking about her.

How is just her eye contact enough to make him come?

Barry, yes, a few times, but Savitar?

It’s intense to feel the power of it. And she likes it. She’s used to having a hero on his knees in front of her, coming apart at her simple actions, simple touches, simple presence. Having a killer react the same way, is new. And a god? _Well_.

Testing, she slowly wets her bottom lip, sucking it in to scrape her teeth along it. Savitar follows the movement, his eyes narrowing somewhat as he gives a heavier pant. But nothing else.

She tenses in preparation to reach out, to move towards him, but he reads her too quickly, too easily, and tightens the grip just above her ankle, pressing her back into the cushion and signalling that he doesn’t want her moving.

She allows it but at the same time, refuses to give in. Iris pushes her pelvis forward as much as she can. Even slight, the movement makes the cool air against the heat of her more obvious, fully reminding her the state she’s in. His head cocks the barest amount, a clench in his jawline, but that’s all. Still he doesn’t take his eyes from hers. It’s all until his arm speeds up and Iris watches as he works himself.

She swallows, her mouth dry, as she thinks about how this is all a choice for him. To be slow, to be on her time, to be here at all.

He remains unnaturally still, fully clothed and put together and somehow without any discomfort for the way he’s balancing on his heels. And remains quiet but for groans that affect her. She’s not used to hearing them alone, without loving words, without his voice.

The clench of his jawline bites down again when he comes, moaning from deep in his throat. His eyelids flutter a little but his focus stays steady on her eyes.

Iris lets out a breath with him, exhaling through her mouth as she finds herself calming her breathing again.

Before a new kind of quiet, a real quiet that means she’ll have to evaluate and think, Savitar yanks his hand from his jeans and crawls forward. She watches a little dazed, only really recognising that there’s more urgency to it this time as he reaches her.

He drapes both of her legs over his shoulder this time. And it feels good. Like stretching her legs more comfortably means she can fully relax, like it's Barry and it's okay, but she can’t really relax - can't really lie to herself that much - because she can feel how spent she is, the ache at the crease of her legs and the tingle of her clit, nerve memory of those vibrations.

“No, I…” she says in a breath, trying to tell him she’s too sensitive but his mouth is already on her again and her head drops back, her eyes closing as Savitar fucks her with his tongue again, avoiding her clit as if to dismiss her excuses.

Hands that dug into her skin, that held her in place now slid up her waist, making her arch into the touch as he reaches under her blouse, along her ribs, catching the underside of her breasts; her blouse pushed up. It’s different than before. Suddenly satisfaction she felt moments before is gone and she's _needy_ again. She feels on fire. It’s been months, and god she knows those hands.

Hands that have killed, she blocks out.

Hands that have saved, she corrects.

Hands that taken her apart over and over.

Hands that have held hers for most of her life.

Letting herself consciously enjoy it even more this time, she indulges in it. Rocking into his face, threading fingers through his hair.

Working to her climax, she’s aware of anticipating that vibration again, the only thing that makes sense in such moments, something that her body expects. But unlike before, it doesn’t happen. A flattened tongue flicks at her clit once before pressing down and then lips and tongue clamp over her and _suck_.

She gasps, her back coming completely off the couch in surprise as she comes again, but he steadies her, adjusting his hands at her sides to better guide her, to hold her up, to let her feel it.

Though unexpected, though not Barry, she rides it out, enjoying it.

“Fuck.” She exhales before she stretches her shoulders back as much as she can, feeling the effects through her body.

Her head slips left against the couch pillow, she’s now tired, and sleepy and relaxed.

She finds herself cradling his left cheek, looking down at him as he stays between her legs. “Are you okay?” she asks after wetting her lips. She doesn’t think about it, just acts.

Dark eyes catch hers again as he raises his eye line. “Are you sure those are the right words?” he ponders, throwing her enough that she shakes her head. “How about, ‘thank you’?” he suggestions, amusement dripping from his voice and Iris’s body is still hot, a shin of sweat drying over some of her, making the instant chill that runs through her even more obvious. “Thank you, Savitar, for servicing me after my fiance has left me.” He finishes as he sits back on his heels and stares at her with a smug look on his face.

Everything freezes as she stares, so different from their eye contact moments before. Is this what it was like for Barry, she fleetingly thinks. Time slowing down, something that you can’t quite catch. Then it rushes back.

“Get the fuck away off me.” She spits at him, kicking him with foot as she gracelessly untangles herself from him and moves away to behind the couch as she pulls her blouse down as much as she can, which isn’t enough.

He quickly recovers from the measly force of her kick, simply catching himself with a hand on the floor as he sits on one knee and stares at her, laughing. He’s the one still kneeling on the ground as she stands but all the power is with him.

“Bit late for that, Iris.” He taunts.

She swallows at the use of her name. He’s never said to her before, not like this, not as himself, as whatever the fuck they’ve become these last months. It shouldn’t do anything, but it does, it does and she was unprepared for it.

Swallowing again, she tries to ignore it. “Barry didn’t leave me.” She rebukes as she stands her ground, Barry’s ground.

“No?” he mocks with raised eyebrows.

Her breath is uneven in an entirely different way than minutes before.

“He saved the city, he sacrificed himself for others. He’s a hero.” She defends, telling herself she sounds stronger with each word she manages to get out of her mouth.

“Oh, is that he was?” He says half under his breath as if to himself. The choice of wording does what it was meant to, stabbing at her that Barry is gone and with him, so is her strength.

In one smooth movement, he stands, unphased by being on his knees for so long, by coming in his underwear, as if none of it matters to him. All of it as she stands with her blouse barely covering her. Then he smoothly grabs the sheet she being using and keeping over the arm of the couch and starts walking towards her. The hammering in her chest gets worse with every deliberate step he takes closer to her. It’s as though she forgot what he was capable of and he knows it, and is now showing it in the pathetically simple act of walking.

Iris stands and waits, refusing to run, fighting the urge she has to back herself into the wall behind her.

She’s completely still, only carefully watching as he slowly wraps the sheet over her shoulders, and around again so it’s totally covering her. Iris focuses on her breathing to resist either snatching it off him, or taking the material and holding it tightly around herself – she won’t give him the satisfaction. There has to be something she can salvage after what she’s allowed to happen tonight. But it’s hard when he doesn’t move away and takes long seconds before he seems to regretfully let go of the sheet. Even then, he doesn’t step back, staying in her personal space.

Unable to keep up with his shifting behaviour – she doesn’t understand, and she’s satisfied and she’s tired and she's confused and with a release of breath she asks. “What do you want?” Her voice is softer than she’d like, showing her display of emotions.

His focus tilts down so much his eyes almost look closed, and he does nothing else and Iris feels the wave of emotions shift again, irritation coming to the forefront. “Can’t come up with an answer yet?” she snaps, watching the bare reaction of a tightening of his jaw. The reminder of the same movement as he stared at her, as he came, is enough to push her further. She feels something similar to that earlier power, even if it is all fucked up more than ever. “Do you even know?” she questions before continuing with her own taunt. “All that time in the Speedforce. One goal, and now? It’s all over. Maybe you’re experiencing an identity crisis.” she says sarcastically, spitefully.

He huffs a laugh, his mouth turning up in a smirk again before raising his eyeline and moving his head slowly as he locks onto her. “That’s cute,” he murmurs before slowly and deliberately licking his lips. Then with his right hand, he uses his index finger to wipe the same lips. Then adds his thumb as he wipes the corners, and around his mouth where his skin still shines, with _her_.

Heat warms her cheeks and chest, catching her breath as she remembers exactly what they were doing minutes before.

Both index finger and thumb line his lips again, spreading her wetness onto his bottom lip. Then with a thoughtful hum to himself, he finally steps back, not giving her another look as he turns and makes his way towards the door.

Standing in her position – standing her ground, she tells herself, she watches until he finally leaves, feeling completely stunned by the fact that he’s actually using the door.

 _Asshole_ , she thinks.

But her headache is gone.

And even as she stands with the sheet, instead of numb, she feels a fire within her she thought was almost distinguished.

Control, power, satisfaction. _Something_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.
> 
> Stay safe, everyone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than I wanted and posting it now does kind of mess up a certain flow I had per chapter to chapter, but I'm stuck on the next bit and just really, really wanted to post *something*
> 
> Happy New Year everyone!

There’s an irritation she starts to carry with her. An unsteadiness, like she’s on guard.

She cuts her hair. Wears it differently.

Less hassle. Less her.

She vaguely wonders how Iris West-Allen would have worn her hair.

Iris West-Allen probably would have been confident, living her best life. Happy. Fulfilled. Waking up to her husband every day probably made her ready to take on the world.  
Wear it natural, she thinks, more than once, as she tries to remember exactly who she is.

Braid it, she thinks, thinking about who she might want to be in the aftermath.

But who she’s supposed to be wins out. There’s so little about her not carefully concealed right now, she can’t risk showing what’s happening underneath the put-together shell she’s become.

She keeps it short. Simple. With a bounce that presents a healthiness, and energy that the rest of her body can’t reflect.

She starts to feel watched, and when she decides she isn’t just paranoid – or hopeful – and really does feel it, she realises it means he’s letting her know. If he wanted to, she’d have no idea.

But she doesn’t see him, day or night, in the city or at the loft. Even when she looks for him.

Instead, she works on Wally’s speed, pushing him with a self-hate that deepens each time she realises that though he’s faster than Barry, he’s slower than Savitar.  
She remembers Wally’s broken leg, broken as he protected her, from Savitar.

She remembers Wally’s haunted look after being in the Speedforce, after Savitar got inside, manipulated his insecurity and want to have an impact and tricked him.  
She remembers the caution, the edginess – jumpiness – he wore every day for so long after, because of Savitar.

She isn’t sure what’s worse, that in her own grief, her own turmoil, part of her sort of forgot all her new lover put him through, or that she actually makes herself think of her brother’s pain in order to control her own thinking, her own grief, her own turmoil.

She hates herself more though when she starts counting the differences in how Wally runs, in how he stops, in how he talks over coms compared to Barry. It’s been months with Wally as the lone speedster of Star Labs, if not of Central City, but somehow it’s only getting to her now.

She doesn’t tell him.

She doesn’t tell anyone.

“Wally?” she checks after her brother one night when he gets back from a mild run in with a near car accident. It was close, but no one was hurt. It wasn’t a big enough incident to have her brother have the haunted look he has right now.

“You okay, son?” her dad asks when Wally doesn’t answer her.

“Yeah,” he says slowly as he circles himself around. He’s frowning as he closes in on the other side of the comms. He’s still in his suit, his hood pulled down. “Yeah. This is gonna sound weird but…” he looks at them all, but especially her and Iris has a feeling of worry stab at her. “There was…something, tonight. Someone.”

“What do you mean someone?” her dad questions from the side.

“A speedster,” he explains, wonder and confusion in his voice before he shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m not saying…” he looks at her apologetically as he silently tries not to get her hopes up for Barry, as he’s careful about hurting her. Wrong. All wrong. It’s her who needs to apologise, her who’s allowing it all. “I was probably wrong.” He deflates, right in front of her.

They all stand quiet for a moment, lost in their thoughts. Thoughts of Barry, hopes for Barry. What ifs. She remembers feeling that way, but as she stands with her family – what’s left of her family – she’s the only one not focused on Barry.

“Cisco,” her dad breaks the silence, nudging his head towards Cisco. “You get something?”

Cisco just shakes his head, thoughtful, and unusually quiet.

Iris doesn’t like it. Neither does her dad.

“No vibing?” her dad prompts.

Iris waits, getting more and more nervous. Though it’s not the numb, or the tired she feels day on day, she doesn’t want it. She feels unsteady, and like she could break. Like she’s about to scream and let it all out. Like they’re about to see what she’s become.

“No.” Cisco finally says, but he doesn’t hold her dad’s eye for long and she watches her dad continue to stare at him. Too little said by someone who likes to ramble, to share.

She feels paranoid. A tension piercing under her skin.

Then her dad’s focus shifts to her, with empathy and sympathy and shared pain. A shared grief she can tell he fully expects her to feel, and to give in the moment.

She can’t. She just – she can’t.

“It must not have been anything.” She shuts down, her voice tight as they all turn to her. With a breath, she turns and walks out of the Cortex, heels against the floor clicking and echoing that she thinks can’t be right, she doesn’t hear that noise daily, but it’s loud and echoing and empty.

It makes her want to scream more just to cover the noise in her ears, burrowing into her mind.

She wears flats for the rest of the week. No one seems to notice but somehow it feels like the most she’s given away in months.

It happens again.

And as soon as she sees Wally’s questioning frown, troubled and conflicted, she realises she’s been waiting for it.

“I felt it again.” Wally says as they all stand together in the Cortex after dealing with a single mugging. He says it to everyone, before she can say anything, before she can leave, before she can just stop it and get away.

She feels angry as she looks at Wally, as he looks at her, confused and scared and sorry like he’s bringing her bad news.

She feels like his sister, angry that someone is making him feel this way.

She focuses on that anger, grabbing onto it like it’s a way out. Because she thinks maybe it is. She won’t ever be Barry Allen’s wife, but she’s still Wally West’s sister. That should matter, it has to matter.

“What do we do?” Wally asks in follow up when no one says anything. He looks at them all, seeking answers, decisions he doesn’t know how to or want to make. He stands there trying to make them a team.

“If it’s something we have to deal with I’m sure they’ll make themselves known.” She snaps, the anger shining though, but it’s blurring. She can’t say all the anger is from one place, about one thing. Even though it should be – it should be, it should be, it should be, she tells herself.

It should be simple. How dare he mock their pain, their grief. How fucking dare he toy with her family. That’s all she should feel. But instead she feels anger that he’s revealing her.

Everyone else looks at her. Cowardly – something she never thought she’d be – she hopes they mistake her anger for wanting to protect them, for missing Barry, for anything other than what it is turning into. She hopes they mistake it for what she wishes it were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, as always.
> 
> Stay safe.


End file.
